A Slowly Sliding Scale
by ALP Unstable
Summary: It's July, 1914. Booker and Elizabeth are in Boston, trying to establish an investigation service. History is going off the rails, Elizabeth's power is taking on a life of its own, and the hard truths that they avoided facing are about to catch up to them. AU; Bookerbeth.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This story will ultimately acknowledge Booker and Elizabeth's canon relationship. I recognize that that makes some folks uncomfortable, so please be advised!

* * *

><p><strong>DECEMBER 23rd, 1912, SOMEWHERE OVER THE ATLANTIC<strong>

Neither of them was at the console when it happened, and so while she knew there was a radius, she couldn't have said how wide it was. She could guess, based on their average rate of speed and the duration of their flight, but that wasn't quite the same as knowing for certain.

Although Songbird obeyed the whistle, he was ever drawn to her. They kept having to repeat the notes, reasserting control. But then, suddenly, he jerked and tumbled back. He flapped his wings, bobbing in midair; his head twitched and his eyes cycled from yellow to red, yellow to red, yellow to red, and he lurched forward and screeched, and his limbs and joints shed sparks. Beak reaching skywards, he lost altitude, spiraled, caught himself. He cocked his head toward the ship in what might have been longing, then reeled, turned, and flew off in the direction of Columbia.

She walked to the railing and watched him go, knuckles turning white.

"I feel…empty."

Booker was silent.

"Shouldn't I be happy? This is what I wanted, isn't it?"

She heard his footfalls, slow and heavy, and then felt the heat of his body, only inches from her own. "A lot's happened to you. It's gonna take time, to…"

"…what? Learn to live with it?"

"Um…yeah." His voice was soft, quiet.

She turned to face him. "How long did it take you?"

He looked at her, and his body shifted, and his eyes darkened. "Still working on it."

...

**JULY 6TH, 1914, BOSTON**

_...oh my God._

She sat on a bench, waiting, the Daily Globe folded across her lap. It was the seventh day in a row she'd bought a copy, after over a year of getting her news for free.

In the early days, she'd been fascinated by newspapers. They were filled with conflicting opinions and contrary viewpoints and, compared to what had been available in Columbia, complete intellectual anarchy. It had been thrilling. She'd spent ungodly sums of coin scooping up every French daily she could find, and Booker had been annoyed, and she'd dared him to stop her, and there was, of course, nothing he could do. But she'd met her match in time and experience. As the months had passed, she'd come to see the wisdom in his way, in picking up information from the shops and bars and streets, in lifting "used" copies of important editions. Why waste money on news when it was so easy to get it through other means? There was no sense in it.

But then, the Austrian prince had been assassinated. In the days since, the price of a paper hadn't seemed so steep.

She skimmed through the previous day's events and marveled at them. Germany had offered to back Austria-Hungary against Russia. The Entente was bristling. The Globe was speculating, as it had been for a week, on the potential for imminent disaster. And all she could think about was Booker's nose for blood. _He saw it. He actually saw it, the damnable man._

"That elan and Alsace-Lorraine talk, and that shit on the border... I got a bad feeling, is all I'm saying. Something's gonna happen, and being as it ain't our fight, I'd just assume not be here when it does." He'd been leaning against the window of their small set of rooms, slipping a cigarette past his lips and offering her the pack. She'd taken one and rolled her eyes.

"It's all just that: talk. They'll never attack Germany."

Smoke curled around his head. "Who says they're gonna be the ones doing the attacking?"

They'd left France during the second week in May and England during the third, his body vibrating with tension, his restlessness robbing her of sleep. It had burned her, agreeing to leave on a hunch. It burned her almost as badly that he was being proven right. She'd liked Paris, even if it hadn't been as romantic as she'd thought it would be, and although it certainly smelled better, Boston couldn't quite capture its charm. A part of her had hoped that they'd eventually go back, but there was no way that would happen, now. She'd been through one war, and that had been enough.

Her gaze shifted from the paper to the street, pulled by the screech and hiss of a stopping streetcar. A quarter hour ago, a man had taken a seat on the opposite end of her bench, tried to talk to her; she'd politely put him off. He caught her attention again, smiled, tipped his hat as he rose.

"Good day, miss!" She caught the faint hint of an accent. It hadn't shown through, when he'd first spoken to her.

She watched as the car disgorged its previous load of passengers, as the man entered the stream of waiting fares, as they all climbed aboard, one by one, patient and orderly. Her mind sang a familiar litany: where was he from? Had he been trying to hide his accent? How much money did he have? His suit wasn't cut from the finest cloth, but it was well-tailored. He was getting on the line to Charlestown; what business did he have there? Had that been ink on his fingers? A clerk, perhaps. Had he come from the state or court house? Had he sat next to her because...

She closed her eyes. _Stop it, Elizabeth._ It was an attempt at distraction, she knew, but...God, working with Booker had warped her. Everyone was either suspicious or pitiable, a series of points, boxes on a checklist - a mark or a victim, a thief or a killer. He'd tried to turn down her help, when he'd first fallen back into investigative work, tried to "protect" her in the way he was always failing to do. Sometimes, she wished she had just let him.

Then again, given what she'd done and been through, there might not have been any help for her, anyway.

He appeared when the streetcar had driven off, on the opposite side of the street, weaving through traffic and the midday crowd. Frowning, shoulders set, body coiled. He wasn't taking it well, the move. She'd seen him eyeing the gaming parlors and wondered how much longer she'd be able to keep him out of them, how much longer she'd be able to keep him from looking for more...brutal work.

"Any luck?" she asked when he reached her. She stood, smoothed her skirts.

He pulled a handful of papers, neatly folded, from his vest pocket. "Got a few that need serving." He sighed. "Jesus, I hate subpoenas. Don't even know where half these streets are."

"Well, they pay, and it's all we're getting right now." She tucked the Globe under her arm and took the summonses from him, glanced over each one, lingered on the third. "I think I know where this is."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Past the garden."

"Lead the way, then." He clicked his tongue. "Starting to think it oughtta be your name on the door."

"Just starting?" She arched an eyebrow at him. He let out a low chuckle, slid his hand over her lower back, squeezed her side and, for just a moment, pulled her against him. Then, they bounced apart, stepping outward, falling back into socially acceptable orbit. Another man might hold out his arm to her, but that wasn't his style, and in any case, they were supposed to be playing the part of partners.

They turned down Beacon Street, and this close to the Hill, it was impossible not to notice the clusters of well-to-do and "important" people. Private automobiles shared space with waiting carriages. Women wearing the height of fashion, boasting feathered hats and Gibson waists, chatted with men in custom suits and shining loafers. A few of them cast disapproving glances in her and Booker's direction.

_Yes, yes, we don't "belong" here. God forbid we sully your day with our presence._

"So," he said as they passed the state house, "what's with the newspaper?"

_Oh God._ She adjusted the paper, clutched it more tightly. "I don't know if you've noticed, Booker, but Europe is on the verge of going up in flames."

"Course it is. Wouldn't be here if it wasn't."

She pressed her fingers to her temple. He was infuriating. "If there was ever a time to make sure we're informed..."

"...it ain't when this is the only work we can get."

"We haven't been here that long. We'll get something soon enough."

"I dunno. Pinkerton and Burns ain't giving me too much hope." They'd had luck, in Paris, offering asset and loss protection to a shop or three; here, every shop they'd called upon already had a sign in its window, and every sign bore the name of either Booker's former employer or William J. Burns. They'd had to contend with Burns' agency in Paris, too, but it hadn't had quite the reach.

Boston Common sprawled out to their left, all manicured lawn and history. "We just have to give it some time. We've got that advertisement out, and..."

The air, already chillier than it should have been, went even colder. She caught a flash of light and smelled something raw and acidic; smoke, harsh, rancid. The tips of her fingers burned. There were sparks on them. There were sparks all over her body.

She turned her head. She had done less with her power, as time had gone on. She had gotten what she'd wanted, and even though it hadn't always been easy, it had been rare that she'd longed for escape the way she'd longed while in Columbia. There was a use for tears. She'd shred the fabric of reality, and gladly, if the situation called for it. But she wasn't constantly wishing, constantly searching, constantly at the ready the way she once had been, and so she had started seeing and feeling only what was already there rather than what she wanted.

This was something different.

It was a tear, but it was... There was a man, on a corner, at the intersection of Beacon and some other street, and he was...everything. All things. He had choices before him, as all people did, and somehow she could see _every single choice_, and every single consequence, and every single end. There was a woman in his life. He married her, they had three children, and each one of those children made them so proud, and they were happy. But she died young. And then she outlived him. And then one of their children died, stillborn, but then he didn't take that job, and she didn't agree to marry him, but he took it and she still refused, and he gave up and died syphilitic, but he found someone else, and he loved her more than he would have loved the first, and they only had one child but what a woman she became, and...

"...Elizabeth?"

The web shattered, and the sensation of her vision narrowing, her mind closing back around the present, made her lose her footing. Booker grabbed at her, held her upright. She looked up at him and wondered why the light hurt her eyes.

"You okay?"

She sucked in a breath. _What the hell was that?_ "Yes, I..." She placed a palm on his chest and used him to steady herself. "I just saw a tear."

"A tear?" he asked, tone flat, disbelieving.

"It was strange. It was...as if one tear were many, and I was seeing them all at once." She pulled away from him. "I'm fine, though."

He stared at her, his jaw working. She knew what he wanted to say. He'd tried it and failed enough in the time they'd known each other that she also knew he wasn't going to bother. "Ah, um...okay."

They started walking again, and she tried not to worry about the fact that her spine was tingling, and that she didn't want to talk to him.

...

She'd developed a taste for whisky, despite the preference of the French for other types of alcohol, and tonight, she'd needed it. Booker was a terrible influence.

They'd managed to serve half the subpoenas he'd picked up, and they'd gotten paid for them. It wasn't the fattest wage, but it was enough to carry them through the next few days and have enough left over to spare for a bottle. So, they drank and flirted, the way they always did.

Who might she have been, if it hadn't been for him or Comstock? What might she be doing? She knew that she was smart, but as far as she could tell, intelligence could only take a person so far. It was mitigated by so many other factors, and the fact that she was a woman just happened to be one of them.

The world wasn't very clean. She'd picked up on the wrong things, when she'd first read 'Les Miserables.'

"I'm gonna go to bed. You coming, or what?"

She felt off. Since that moment, when what should have been a simple tear had shattered into a kaleidoscope, everything had felt slightly askew. It was why she had a drink in her hand. It was why she hesitated.

She tipped back the glass. _Stop being ridiculous._ "Sure."

She followed him into the bedroom. His kiss was familiar, comforting. She ran her hands over his shoulders and back, through hair that was growing ever more grey, over muscles that were changing in shape. She still wanted him, with the same fervor that had gripped her a year and a half ago, no matter what changes had taken place, no matter what had passed between them. When he touched her, her body still ached with need.

She'd stripped him of his outer shirts and he was hooking his fingers under the straps of her _soutien gorge_ when the knock came. They froze, stricken. There was a long pause.

"Nothin'," he muttered, bending his head to kiss her neck.

It came again.

"Goddammit."

He put his clothes back on like they were hateful things. He was through the door and out into the main room before she could secure her blouse and step back into her skirt, and she listened, frustrated, as he greeted their late night guest.

A man's voice. "Hello, uh...saw your advertisement, and..."

"...and?"

Her mind was all a fog, so much so that she had trouble doing up her buttons. Drunk and aroused. Perfect time for them to get their first potential client.

"Sorry for calling so late."

"It's fine. Just state your business."

When she entered the main room, the man's eyes slid off of Booker and swept over her, brows drawing close. He was stocky and short for a man, about her height, and he gripped a derby between his hands, worrying the brim.

"Evening, ma'am."

She looked at Booker, then back at him. "As he said, please state your business."

The man's gaze drifted downward. His chest rose, slowly, then fell. "There's someone I need you to follow."

"Yes? Who?"

He closed his eyes. "My wife."

She sighed and covered her face with her palm. _Oh, great._


	2. Chapter 2

**DECEMBER 27TH, 1912, PARIS**

The sun began to set and they turned in the direction of their room, drifting down narrow streets, dodging gutters, hewing close to ward off the chill. The day had been pleasant enough, but she couldn't quite shake the numbness in her heart or the dark, hollow feeling in her stomach. She had escaped the nightmare, but its effects lingered. How long would it weigh upon her? Would it stay with her always, souring even her favorite dreams?

As darkness overtook them, they happened upon a public house, and she paused in the glow of its window. Music and laughter, faint. Couples dancing. _Perhaps..._ He must have seen the longing in her expression, because he cleared his throat, took a step, and turned to face her.

"Miss Elizabeth," he said, his tone the mockery of a gentleman's, "would you care to dance?"

She scoffed. "I thought you couldn't dance."

"Ain't say I can't. Said I don't."

She looked from him, to the window, then back again. "You're willing to make an exception?"

"Sure." He shrugged. "Why not? Just don't get used to it."

Something heady and warm spread through her, cutting through the pain. She regarded him, brow knit, eyes narrowed. He seemed to make a lot of exceptions, when it came to her. _You're not nearly so terrible as you think you are, Mr. DeWitt._ "Well, then...yes. Yes, of course."

That night, feeling alive for the first time in six months, her head spinning with wine and endorphins, she murmured his name, gripped his face in her hands, and kissed him.

...

**JULY 10TH, 1914, BOSTON**

She felt...off. Her perception was skewed, her skin was tingling. Opening tears, sensing them, had always felt a bit like wading into an electric current. There was a buzz, a shock, a burst of light. But it had never hurt. It had felt pleasant; it had felt _right._

This didn't feel right at all. It was a pressure, a throbbing. And it had been that way since Monday, since Beacon Street. It made it hard to concentrate. Hard to work.

They wound their way through the streets of the South End, past factories, warehouses, groggy and bleary-eyed workers. Dawn had yet to fully break, and first shift had yet to begin. A little over an hour prior, they'd stood on their client's street, watching and waiting. Now, they trailed his wife at a distance of two blocks, and still they watched and waited. Elizabeth didn't want to be there. She wanted to go home, close her eyes, try to will away the disorientation.

She didn't like this kind of job. She hated jealous lovers, hated their possessiveness, their need for control. She saw in their actions the ghost of Comstock, heard in their words the echo of her cage. Booker could sometimes be that way, himself, but she had the upper hand when it came to their relationship, and she'd figured out long ago how to get him to back off. None of that applied to clients. Had they still been in Paris, where they'd been properly established, she might've pushed to refuse William Roche's business. But they _weren't_ in Paris any longer, so she contented herself with the fact that it wasn't the sort of work that required beating or killing, and quietly hoped that Mrs. Roche wasn't doing anything untoward.

Unfortunately, so far, it didn't look like that was going to be the case.

"Why is she..." Elizabeth could smell the harbor, now, a mix of brine and something vaguely foul. "What reason could she have for coming out here?" The Roches weren't so well off that they didn't both have to work, but they'd had a few breaks and landed the sort of positions that were the envy of most waterfront workers. There were few legitimate reasons for them to come to this part of the neighborhood, and Mr. Roche had caught enough glimpses of the next rung of the social ladder to start caring about...appearances. At the very least, he wasn't going to be happy to find out that this was where his wife was spending her time.

Booker reached into his vest pocket. "Hell if I know." The lid of his lighter clinked against its canister; there was a rush of air, faint, a whiff of butane. "Maybe she likes 'em rough."

"God, you can be so crass." She frowned. "You don't honestly think that she's having an affair, do you?"

"I don't care what she's doing, just that she's doing it," he said, turning to look at her. "I know you don't like this, but don't you go and make it personal."

_Too late._

Margaret Roche kept on, her pace purposeful, her path a mostly straight line. She led them ever further into the heart of the South End's industry, edged them ever closer to the ocean. In spite of herself, Elizabeth found that she was starting to be curious, starting to take an interest in the woman's destination. Was she meeting someone at the pier? Was she dealing in some sort of illicit business? Mr. Roche's suspicions had led him to a distasteful set of assumptions, but perhaps he wasn't wrong to have them, after all.

The change, when it came, was abrupt. The call of gulls rose over the gentle hum of the early morning streets, but the sound was...strange, muffled, not quite what it should have been. The pressure in Elizabeth's head increased. She blinked, and behind her eyelids, the sky opened up, the layers of reality peeling back, back, and through the tear, amid the screech of metal on metal, there came...there came...

"Shit!" The image shattered at the touch of Booker's voice. She shook her head, and suddenly she was lost. _This isn't my city. These aren't my streets._ His cigarette fell through a halo of ash, turning end over end, bouncing off the road. "C'mon, we're gonna lose her."

_Her?_

He grabbed her arm and tugged her forward, until they were moving at just short of a run. _Have we been spotted?_ They should be fighting, shouldn't they? Perhaps he needed something. If he would take cover, then she could start... No, no, that wasn't right. None of it was right. Everything was out of sync, and he didn't even see it, didn't even know. They ducked down an alley; the light changed, and there were two sets of sights and sounds and memories, one overlaying the other. Two threads, dangling. Her fingers twitched. The here and now slid and clicked and reasserted itself.

"Oh, God!" She came to a stop, chest heaving. Lifted her hand to her head. _Shit. Oh God. Oh shit._ Booker skidded ahead a few steps, turned his head, scowled.

"What the hell are you doing?" he snapped. He flung out his arm, gesturing further down the alley. "Ain't even got her in sight now, who the hell knows where she turned, and you wanna stand there and..." He trailed off. He was looking at her, and she wanted to yell back at him, but the words wouldn't come. "Hey...what's wrong?" Softer, now, but still with an edge to it.

Her throat felt tight. When she found her voice, she almost didn't want to tell him, almost didn't think he deserved to know. "I was back, for a moment...two years ago..." She looked up. The sky was a narrow purple square, bracketed by blackened brick walls. "Booker, something's happening to me." She brought her gaze back down to his. His jaw worked; his brow pulsed. She could see the conflict within him, the desire to take care of her butting up against the need to race after Mrs. Roche.

"Same kinda thing as the other day?"

"Yeah."

"Uh...well..." He ran a hand through his hair. "How long's it been since you had the dreams?"

It had been a while, thank God. At least half a year. "Why do you ask?"

"Might be something like that." His eyes drifted down the alley. His body shifted, back and forth, angling away from her, then toward her. His hands curled into fists. It hurt, that he was so torn, even though she understood why. This was their first job, their _only_ job, and if they wasted too much time, they'd lose it. They'd damage their reputation at the outset, make it that much harder to scrape their way up. What would it matter that he'd comforted her, if that was to be the price of it?

_He chose me over a job, once. I wouldn't be here..._ But that had been different, hadn't it? He couldn't give her a life if they couldn't make money. And if they couldn't make money doing something semi-legitimate, then he'd go back to doing all of the things she'd convinced him he didn't need to do. He'd start listening to the voice that told him he was rotten and irredeemable, and in his service to it, he'd close off and shut down.

She sucked in a breath. She was still rattled, and she still felt awful, and she still didn't like the nature of the work, but... "Look, let's just keep going. We can discuss this later." She started walking, and he narrowed his eyes.

"You sure?"

"Yes. You're right, we..." Vertigo. _Deep breaths, Elizabeth._ "...we need to hurry if we're gonna catch up to her."

He hesitated, long enough for it to soothe some of the twisting in her gut. Then, they were running.

...

If Mrs. Roche hadn't stopped to speak with someone, they probably wouldn't have found her again. And even then, they'd gotten lucky: had they tried a different turn before taking this one, she'd likely have already finished her conversation and moved on.

The sky lightened. The roads grew more narrow. Buildings bearing the name of the Boston Wharf Company gave way to tightly-packed tenements and neighborhood stores. The demeanor of the men and women on the streets and stoops was closed off, suspicious, in a way that those they'd passed earlier hadn't been. The further Margaret Roche went, the further _they_ went, the more Elizabeth got the impression that they were about to come upon something that certain people weren't supposed to see; the more she found herself reminded, inexplicably, of the Vox.

Another wave of vertigo struck her. She stumbled, but kept on, waved off Booker's hand. The air changed, became heavier. Her body shook and sparked like a live wire. There were possible tears, here. _Tons_ of them.

_...why?_

There were posters on the walls, shouting support for James Michael Curley. There were men with flyers and pamphlets tucked under their arms. They rounded a corner and found themselves in a small crowd, congregating in a cloud of cigarette smoke. They watched as Mrs. Roche was welcomed into a tavern, as a stream of people slowly filed in after her. The sense of there being a multitude of tears, of this point sitting at the nexus of a great wheel of possibility, became stronger, more intense.

_Is there something here that isn't supposed to be?_ It occurred to her, quite suddenly, that she didn't truly have any idea how her power worked. Perhaps that was part of why it had started going haywire.

They made their way to the bar's entrance, heads swiveling in their direction, the looks they received a mixture of the curious and the distrustful. Booker's gait and posture stiffened; it was subtle, and wouldn't have been noticed by someone who didn't know him, but Elizabeth could see that he was bothered, that he was...preparing.

"I don't like this," he whispered.

Her stomach flipped. She didn't want to think about opening any of the tears around them, not after what had happened, but if he thought something felt off...

A few paces from the door, they were stopped by a woman with a stack of flyers. Her fingers curled around Elizabeth's arm, her grip firm.

"Haven't seen the two of you before." Her eyes passed over them, appraising. They didn't have anywhere near the best clothing, but what they did have was better than what most people here were wearing. "You here to join, lend your support, or...?" she asked, her tone skeptical.

_Oh, great. So it _is_ that sort of thing._ "We're not sure yet. We're...interested." Elizabeth nodded toward the flyers. "May I?"

The woman paused and pursed her lips before handing one over. "Take a look. We're doing good things, here." She smiled, then, but her eyes flashed with warning. "We're not looking for trouble, mind. At least, not today."

"I understand. Thank you." She turned, walked a few steps away, began to scan the flyer. Booker fell in beside her. The title read, in bold letters, 'Preamble of the Industrial Workers of the World.'

Booker drew in a sharp breath. "...you gotta be kidding me."

"What?"

His lips trembled and his eyes went blank. He was remembering something, and whatever it was, it wasn't good. "I think you were right about this job." He glanced back over his shoulder. "She ain't stepping out. She's a damn _Wobbly._"

"Oh." _Whatever that is._ "What does that mean for us?"

He shuddered. "It means we might as well have gone to New York after all." He looked at her, and his expression made her heart sink. "'Cause seems there ain't no escaping who I used to be."


	3. Chapter 3

**JANUARY 5th, 1913, PARIS**

She woke breathless and shaking. Her eyes darted, back and forth, trying to focus. It was dark, and the bed was hard, and for a moment, she thought it hadn't been a dream, that _escape_ had been the actual dream. She was still in Comstock House, and today was going to be the day, the day they'd drag her to the operating room and put the bolt in her spine and lock her down...

She pushed herself up, moaning, her chest heaving. There was movement, a rustle of sheets, feet padding on the floor. A figure, little more than a shadow, appeared and knelt beside her, and on instinct, she cried out, threw herself to the side, and kicked it.

"Hey! Whoa, whoa, whoa!"

She stopped and squinted. "...Booker?"

"Yeah. It's me."

She looked past him, taking in the wall, the curtain, the...window. There had been no windows, where she had been held. The outside world had been judged too great a temptation. She'd been allowed to see it before, and look where it had gotten her. So long as she was undergoing reeducation, every sight needed to be carefully controlled.

But here, there was a city, right beyond her room, and next to her bed was the False Shepherd, clad only in a union suit. Dream and reality finally separated. She shuddered with relief.

"God..." She sat back up. "I'm sorry."

"It happens." He touched her shoulder, then her jaw, slowly turning her face toward his. "You gonna be okay?"

"I don't know." She leaned into him. "At some point, I guess." His arm slid around her back, and her head dropped onto his shoulder. It was strange, the change in their relationship. It had been years since he'd been with anyone, and she'd never been with anyone at all, and she couldn't help but sometimes think about the thing she'd seen him do, so it was...awkward. But it was also lovely. And she wanted him, so very badly, even now, with the residue of her nightmare still beading on her skin.

"Booker."

"What?"

"Stay with me, the rest of the night?"

He hesitated. They were sleeping in separate beds for a reason. She knew exactly what that reason was, and she'd been able to care for a little while, but now she found she no longer could.

"...all right."

He pulled himself up, climbed in beside her. Her fingers twisted in his clothes. And eventually, she forgot about Comstock House, and Columbia altogether.

...

**JULY 19th, 1914, BOSTON**

It had reached 90, the day before, and today had broken cooler, but it still pulsed with summer heat. It wasn't yet midday, and already the macadam was radiating and men were loosening their collars. Elizabeth tugged at her sleeves and tried to ignore the press of the gun against her hip. She was sweating where it rested, hidden beneath an extra layer, and the feel of its curves and weight sent her stomach twisting. It was a reminder of bitter things. She wouldn't have been carrying it, if Booker hadn't insisted.

It was unwise, taking this part of the job. She knew it, and he knew it, and they were fools not to have refused it. The thought turned over in the back of her head, pressing against the mass of throbbing, half-realized awareness that now clung to her, always, growing in size and intensity. She could still push it aside, much of time, but there were moments when her mind and vision would split, and she would find herself gazing upon entire worlds, upon an infinity of alternate paths. Some of those paths would reach for her, wrap themselves around her, try to drag her down and through. She'd learned, over the past week, that it was useless to struggle against them. She had to relax into it. Wait for the right moment. Spot the seam, push or pull, open or close.

The trouble was that she couldn't always find the seam.

"Still think you shoulda stayed home."

He was worried. She understood; she was getting nervous, herself. But she'd lied, when they'd been getting ready, and told him that she felt more in control than she had in days. She couldn't let him do this alone. She needed to look out for him, make sure he didn't backslide.

"There's no need." She smiled, faking it. "Really. I'm fine."

He listed a bit. She'd thought she'd seen him downing a drink before they'd left their rooms; he'd deny it, of course. "Uh, right. Just tell me if it starts getting bad, okay? I don't want..." He trailed off. His hand passed over her upper back, drifted up to the nape of her neck, swept away a few loose strands of hair.

"I will." They were in the South End again, at Independence Square, watching a crowd gather, and as she looked upon it, she wondered what might count as "bad." The edges of the space were already beginning to warp. There were...cracks, and they gave her the impression that no one was supposed to be there, that this wasn't supposed to be happening. It was similar to how she'd felt when they'd been at the tavern.

"Booker, I've got a bad feeling about this."

"So do I. That's why we're armed." He rolled his shoulders. "This whole damn business is turning into a mess." It was. And they'd allowed it to.

They'd wound up talking their way into the IWW meeting, despite Booker's distress and Elizabeth's uneasiness. It wouldn't have been enough just to know that Mrs. Roche had attended; they needed to know the nature of her involvement. She didn't work at the waterfront or in any of the factories, putting her outside the union's traditional sphere. Booker had heard of them sometimes stepping beyond those bounds, and if their preamble was to be taken at face value, then it made sense that they'd welcome any kind of worker. But Margaret's interest was still unusual, and that meant putting in the extra bit of work.

They'd sent a message to William Roche that night, and he'd called on them the following evening. "So what _is_ she doing?"

"Hard to say for sure." She'd been quiet, stuck to the back of the crowd, but she was well known, and there'd been a nod, shared with the speaker... "We think she might be an organizer. Or, at least, trying to be one."

"What? But...why? That doesn't make any sense. She doesn't need a union; we've moved up. We're not like _those_ people anymore." The contempt in his voice had made Elizabeth cringe.

"Perhaps she agrees enough with their message that she'd like them to have a presence where she works."

Mr. Roche had turned toward her, eyes narrowed, brows pressed together. "You don't...support this, do you?"

Booker had cleared his throat, given Elizabeth a look: _not now._ "Don't matter. You hired us to find out _what_ she was doing, not why. And seems to me we've done that well enough."

"But, I..." He'd sighed. "All right."

That should have been the end of it. They'd finished the job; they should have collected from him and shown him the door. There was no sense in taking it any further, no reason why they should.

No reason, of course, save money.

"What was the meeting about, anyway?"

"They were planning a rally."

"...oh no."

He was an anxious man, William Roche. He didn't trust the world, as few who'd experienced poverty would, and he also didn't trust his ability to stand against it. He was not the sort who could be counted upon in a fight.

"She'll go, even if I tell her not to."

His wife might not have needed protection.

"I want you to watch out for her and step in if it seems there might be trouble."

But he thought that she did, and he didn't think he could provide it himself.

"I'll pay you double your fee, on top of what I'm paying you tonight."

If they'd been smart, they would have said "no." Instead, they'd shared a glance, and tumbled, together, into a terrible set of justifications. They'd have a cushion; they'd have the funds to revamp and expand their advertising efforts. They had to see it through. They had to press their luck. No matter that going to a union rally was a pace too close to the slope of Booker's past; they'd do it, and be done, and then do what they could to avoid any such business in the future.

"Make it triple."

Mr. Roche's eyes had widened. He'd licked his lips, looked down, taken a breath. "All right. Agreed."

_This is how it starts. This is how it all goes to hell._

A couple of nights later, after they'd spent themselves and she was washing the _pessaire preventif,_ she'd tried to get him to talk about it. He'd grunted, rolled over, and pretended to sleep. She didn't know why she'd expected anything different. It was too close to the subjects he'd always avoided, and there was no reason to think he'd suddenly decide to open up, even with the circumstances being what they were.

Now, she stood with him on a footpath, watching Margaret Roche, moving whenever she did. Their charge was near the front of the crowd this time, speaking with the same man who'd led the meeting, the man who'd probably be leading the rally. Mr. Roche had asked for their continued discretion; unless it became necessary, she was not to know that they were there. It bothered Elizabeth. She'd had to admit that he wasn't quite so bad as she'd thought - he might be jealous and pompous, and he might think it his place to decide which activities were "appropriate" for his wife, but at least he hadn't asked that she be_prevented_ from doing them. It was touching, in a way, that he'd gone the bodyguard route. But he should have told Mrs. Roche what he was doing. He should have let her have a choice.

Passersby were starting to slow, pause, look on. Some were on the street; some had been strolling through other parts of the park. The IWW had staked out a single corner, but the crowd was starting to stretch, and Elizabeth wondered if it might wind up overtaking the entire southern side. She followed the curve of it, turned her head, let her gaze drift toward East Broadway. Latent tears faded in and out of sight. Awareness beat at the inside of her skull. There was something... She stopped, eyebrows climbing. Police. They hadn't been there a few minutes ago. There were only a few of them, and they were just standing, watching, waiting, but their presence made her heart skip.

"Oh, shit." Booker had seen them, too.

"It's fine. Everything's fine," she said. Her revolver grew heavier. "Nothing's going to happen. He'll speak, everyone will disperse, and we'll be done with it."

"That ain't usually how it works."

"I know. I was trying to be reassuring." She gulped. "There'll be more of them, won't there?"

"Yup."

"And they'll try to put a stop to this."

"Yup."

"How long until...?"

"Twenty minutes. Twenty-five, if we're lucky."

"Oh, God."

Booker gritted his teeth and turned toward the speaker. "C'mon, buddy, get it over with."

The air was stagnant. Heavy with humidity, thick with the scent of sweat and exhaust, dancing with the shimmer of heat. Elizabeth felt sick to her stomach. She and Booker shifted as Mrs. Roche finished her conversation and melded back into the crowd. They were at angles, now, positioning themselves so that they could see both her and the cops.

Booker leaned toward Elizabeth's ear. "The second they start moving in, we get her out." She nodded and, on impulse, reached down and squeezed his hand.

A set of arms rose. Someone handed the leader a speaking trumpet. His voice echoed across the square, calling for silence, thanking and welcoming and expressing pleasure at the turnout. The crowd hushed; the sounds of the traffic on East Broadway and M Street grew loud and distinct, and if she strained, Elizabeth could just make out the burbling of the fountain in the center of the park.

"For those of you I haven't met yet, you can call me Egan. I joined the IWW when the strike in Lawrence was in full sway, and while many gave up and gave in, I myself have never looked back."

He started speaking, then, of the unbridgeable gap between the working and employing classes, of the folly of collective bargaining, of the necessity of seizing the means of production, of the primal rights of the poor. Elizabeth's attention wandered. She'd read the Communist Manifesto (much to Booker's irritation; they'd had a less-than-civil debate about it), and although she'd learned that Wobblies didn't necessarily consider themselves Communists, Egan's words sounded familiar enough that she didn't feel the need to listen. Even if she had, she was so nervous, and her power was so active, that she probably still wouldn't have been able to focus. Moments were calling out to her, keeping time with the pace of her heart, and a few more police had arrived...

"...and then, there was Columbia."

Her head snapped back in Egan's direction. _What?_

"Look at what they've done. Look at what they've begun to build. It was at great cost, I won't shy away from that fact, but they've shown us all that what we seek _is_ possible. The creation of a truly free and just society _is_ possible!"

Booker gaped. Elizabeth brought her hand to her face. _Oh, no._ She tried not to think about Columbia, if she could help it. It hurt too much. Gave her nightmares. She glossed over news articles that mentioned it, excused herself from conversations that involved it. There were some things she couldn't help but have heard: that the civil war had ended, that Comstock's followers had all either fled or been killed. But he was talking as if...as if what was left might be something other than a pile of rubble. How could that be?

She considered, and in response, the tears began to unfold.

"The time is _now._ Things are changing. The world is changing. I know you've all been hearing and reading about what's happening in Europe, and let me tell you what I think it means: I think it means the true nature of the state is showing itself, and it is _rotten._ It's greedy and exploitative, just like the men who take your labor from you. And who do you think will bear the brunt when Europe goes to war? Not the men and women driving it in that direction, oh no: men and women like _you,_ who have no choice but to go along."

Cries of agreement rose up from the crowd. Elizabeth's blood pounded in her ears. She couldn't think straight. Bits of Columbia were leaking through. She could see what it might be now, floating behind Egan - a vision of people tearing down broken buildings and putting up new. She could see what it _had_ been. She could see herself, the things that she might have done sharing space with the things that she had. And she could see walls, possibilities that were closed off to her. Why?

"And if you are in any doubt that the state is an instrument of the capitalists, well, let me tell you something. A lot of you've heard of Singing Joe Hill, right?"

There were cheers.

"You know they put him on trial?"

And boos.

"Well, Big Bill Haywood sent us a telegram, and maybe you've read the news in some paper already, but if you haven't, the verdict is out. And my friends, they are putting him to _death!_"

Lines, exploding. Every body was a quantum bomb. She was distantly aware that she and Booker were moving, getting closer to Mrs. Roche. That the numbers of police had swelled. That they were starting to move in.

"And for what? For advocating for folks like _you!_ For pointing out the hypocrisy and injustice of the state! For calling the wage system what it is: _slavery!_ They don't want to hear that kind of talk. It scares them. And you know something? I think they _should_ be scared! I think they should look at Columbia and tremble, because pretty soon, we're bringing _that_ to them!"

The crowd, flushed and excited, surged forward as one, and it carried Booker and Elizabeth along. They pushed through men and women who had already died and who had not yet been born, past masses of open wires that sent jolts of electricity running through Elizabeth's veins. She grabbed at Booker, desperate for an anchor. Looked at him. And the slant of his body, the look in his eyes, brought her back, for just an instant. He was perched on the edge of violence._Everything_ was. And she had come to stop it. She needed to stop it.

"Booker..."

"It's okay. We're leaving."

She felt like her head was being torn open. "Don't do this..."

"Do what?"

Egan had stopped speaking. The police were telling people to break it up, to leave. There was a shift in the tide, and someone started shouting.

"Elizabeth, I'm just getting the girl."

_...aren't I the girl?_

"Margaret Roche? Mrs. Roche!"

There was a loud crack, somewhere off to the left. A cry of pain. "Stop! Stop, all of you! I am an _officer_..."

Margaret Roche turned. Her pale face was flushed, accentuating the freckles on her nose and cheeks. Locks of brown, curly hair had pulled free from her bun, hung over her forehead, stuck to the sweat. Elizabeth saw her reading about Mother Jones and Elizabeth Gurley Flynn, saw Bread and Roses inflame her with passion and inspiration. Saw her rising through the ranks of the IWW. Leaving William. Going to New York City, a few years hence, organizing, agitating. Decrying the Great War and trying to light the spark of revolution.

"Do I know you?"

"No, but we have to get you outta here."

There was a roar of anger, amplified by hundreds of voices, and the crowd became a circle moving outward, pressing up against a line. There were wails and moans, the thump of bodies striking the ground. Tears were forming everywhere, so many of them, so very many, and they were diverging, cycling through entire tapestries of threads. Elizabeth tried to relax. She had to keep some of herself in the present but God, the present was becoming so terrible.

Booker was fingering his holster. _Have to move, have to move, have to move._ She got a hand on Mrs. Roche and shoved her ahead, toward the opposite end of the park, toward East Second Street.

"Who are you people?"

"We'll explain later."

"No!" She pushed back against Elizabeth and brought them to a stop. Her expression was pained. "Explain _now._ Those are my friends; I'm not gonna leave them like this without a reason."

The fight was spreading. There were people trying to run. And everything was slowing, slowing, slowing. The crack of melee was joined by the pop of gunfire, and every shot echoed, and every recoil was delayed. A man wound back his arm to throw a punch, and he moved as if weighted down, and when the blow connected, his opponent hung in the air, then was lowered to the ground, gently. Elizabeth could smell powder, smoke. Her gun burned into her body. She didn't want to use it, _wasn't_ going to use it.

"You ain't gonna like this, lady."

"Just tell me."

It was too close, too close. No one here deserved this. The world was dirty. She'd seen so much evidence of that. But a part of her still wanted to believe that it was possible for someone to do something good, and she looked out on the crowd and despaired, and the scene flickered and became the first handful of days she'd been out of the tower, and she didn't know what to do. She didn't know how to handle it. She'd been so concerned about Booker's past, but had completely neglected to consider the impact of her own.

"Your husband hired us to..."

"_What?!_"

They were being swallowed, now, back into the edges of the fight. Somehow, Elizabeth forced herself to focus, for just a moment, and take Margaret's arm.

"Please, Mrs. Roche. I know how this all must sound, but...just let us take you out of here. You can't help anyone if you're hurt or dead."

Margaret narrowed her eyes, opened her mouth to speak. At that moment, someone bumped into Booker. Elizabeth watched as he reacted, unthinking. Spun around. Hit the man with such force that he was knocked to the ground.

_No! No no no no no..._

She gripped Margaret's upper arms and brought her close. "Run. Get out of here, please!"

Margaret blinked, hesitated. Then, finally, she nodded, and took off in the direction of East Second.

Elizabeth turned, and Booker was reaching for his gun.

_God, NO!_

Everything was unraveling.

_Don't slide back into that, it's been so long since either of us has killed, please, please, please._

Reality shook. Bright, blue-white gashes formed in the air, the tears becoming visible. Some people noticed, and their eyes went wide with shock and fear; others were too caught up in the violence. She could see the lives of each one of them, all of their choices, and it was too much. It confused and frightened her.

But what frightened her even more was that, when she looked at Booker, she couldn't see anything. He was the only person right now whose choices she might want to see, and he was one of the blocks, one of the walls.

"Booker!"

His head swiveled back. He peered at her over his shoulder. His eyes were dead, the way they'd been the last time she'd seen him kill.

"Booker, let's go!"

He started to lower the gun. Her head swam; images of different times, different places, different outcomes blinked in and out of her vision. She strained to hold on, strained to lift her hand, invite him to take it.

And then a man, grimacing with rage, rushed at him, plowed into him, caused him to stagger back. And she knew that she'd lost.

Her hand closed over her own gun. _Maybe I should..._ She removed it from the folds of her skirts, looked down at it. _...save him..._ And damn herself, just a little bit more. Her ledger held far fewer corpses than his. Perhaps that made a difference.

The scene shifted again. All of the tears bowed outward, and energy arced from them, leaping toward her, terminating at her core. Columbia, Columbia, Columbia...

A lighthouse.

A million lighthouses.

She lifted the revolver, but it was too late. Booker's finger closed over his own trigger.

Water. Children. Men made into monsters.

A body crumpled to the ground.

She was seared by the current running through her. The paths wound themselves around her, pulled her in. And there was no seam. There was _nothing_, save a churning pool of space and time. Frantic, drowning, thrashing, she reached and tugged on the first thread she could find, and when it gave way, her body spasmed, and she cried out, and she went hurtling back into the present. To Boston. Independence Square. She found herself gasping with her head tilted back. She watched as the cloudless sky opened up, the layers of reality peeling back, back, and amid the screeching of metal on metal, there came...there came...

A cascade of salt water crashed onto her, onto Booker, onto the crowd. A mechanical beast, trapped and convulsing in the final throes of death, plummeted toward the park, its wings jerking in desperate, futile flaps. A red eye, cracking and clouding, focused on Elizabeth. She gasped.

It was Songbird.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Sorry for the delay in completely this chapter. Chapter 5 should be faster in coming!**

**Also, since the angst train is officially pulling into the station, I wanted to put out this warning again: I will be acknowledging Booker and Elizabeth's canon relationship. The realization is inbound!**

**And thank you, everyone, for reading! :)**

* * *

><p><strong>FEBRUARY 17th, 1913, PARIS<strong>

They were stumbling. Her laughter was too loud; his, of course, was the low, barely audible rumble that it always was. She didn't think she'd had too much, but it was more than she'd ever had before, and she was warm and light-headed and pain-free.

She'd dragged him to the Louvre. The Mona Lisa was still missing, but there was plenty else to see, and the buzz around the blank space where it should have been was interesting in its own right. They'd headed to an ex-pat bar afterwards - Booker's price for going to a museum. It had turned out to be filled with writers and artists and hangers-on.

"Oh, god dammit."

She'd nearly spat out her drink.

They moved through the halls of their building, now, saying a whole lot of nothing and finding it hilarious. He was running his hand down her back and around her waist, and the way he was looking at her was making her ache.

He held open the door when they reached their room, let her in. She turned, opened her mouth to say something that sounded in her head like the height of wit. But then he grabbed her, roughly, and kissed her like he meant to devour her.

"Booker..." she breathed. She'd been taking him to her bed for the past few weeks, but he'd never touched or kissed her quite like _that._ He smirked and stepped away, took off his coat, started undoing his tie and unbuttoning his shirt. _Oh my God._ The ache deepened. Her face flushed, her pulse quickened; she smiled, slow, and titled her head down, watching him with narrowed, eager eyes. When he came at her again, half naked and beautiful and very, very salty, he shoved her up against the wall, pushed his hips hard into hers, ripped at her clothes. She yelped in surprise. He wanted her so badly! But then, she wanted him too, so she clawed at him and matched his desperation.

Later, hours after he'd rendered her insensible, she woke to him writhing and mumbling in his sleep, reliving the awful moments of his past in much the same way that she so often did.

"I'm sorry...I'm sorry..."

She touched his arm. He stirred, eyelids fluttering. And then he muttered a word that hadn't passed his lips since Columbia; a word that he'd made clear he didn't want to talk about; a word that, in the here and now, made her stomach roil.

"Anna."

...

**JULY 19th, 1914, BOSTON**

_What have I done?_

Wish fulfillment. That was what her tears were supposed to be, what they always had been: her soul reaching out, giving form to her desire. She did not desire this. She would _never_ have desired this, nor any of what she had seen today.

The implications of that worried her.

Songbird fell toward the park, his body convulsing, his shrieks choking and sputtering and then stopping altogether. The light in his eyes flickered, died; the irises flooded with oil. Water dripped from him, sloshed from his beak. Pockets of the crowd, thrown off-balance by the initial surge of water, looked up, stunned. There were shouts, cries of alarm.

"...mother of God!"

It was a trickle, at first, a handful of Wobblies and police here and there, fixing their eyes on the sky and backing away, turning, running, and screaming for their fellows to do the same. And then, they all were moving, dashing toward one street or another in a mad, panicked scramble, leaving behind a mass of bodies. Some of the fallen were still alive, groaning and clutching wounds or clawing at the lawn. Elizabeth wanted to move them. She wanted to at least try to save them. But there wasn't enough time, and that knowledge left her cold.

Songbird crashed down. The ground shook; great gouts of earth shot up in an arcing spray. It struck her, and she retched and coughed and wiped at her face, the dirt mixing with water, caking and streaking. Momentum carried him forward in a wild skid, his head angling downward and his tail whipping back and forth, until he slammed into the fountain, smashing it. He rolled, twisted, came to rest on his side, and was enveloped in a cloud of mist and dust.

He'd carved a gouge through the park, some thirty feet wide. It was strewn with frayed wires, hunks of turf, bits of metal. Elizabeth walked to its edge. There were men and women who'd been crushed by the impact, she knew, but she avoided looking at them. She avoided looking at Booker, who'd wound up on the opposite side of the rut, and who was now making his way toward her.

She'd failed. She hadn't stopped Booker, hadn't stopped _anything;_ she'd slipped and panicked and made it worse. Everything was wrong. The whole day, the whole week, the whole damned month. She'd spent a year and a half living a life that was mostly peaceful and mostly normal, and now here it was, all coming apart.

Damn Europe. Damn William Roche. Damn whatever the hell she was supposed to be.

Booker came up beside her. "Elizabeth." She turned away from him. She didn't want to talk. Not now, not yet. She watched the tears collapse, felt her awareness shrink. Wondered why. He touched her shoulder and said her name again.

"What?" she finally asked.

"What just happened?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"No." She looked at Songbird. Why him? Why, of all creatures and all things, would he be what she reached for in a moment of panic? And the _way_ he'd come... Where had she pulled him from? It wasn't the act of forcing him past his boundary that had killed him; he'd already been beyond hope. Had she done something to him, somehow?

Did it even matter?

"Uh, okay." Booker shifted, rubbed at the ground with his foot. "Where's Mrs. Roche?"

She hesitated. He wasn't going to like her answer. "I told her to get out of here."

"You _what_?"

"What would you have had me do?" She spun to face him. "The fight was growing worse, and instead of leaving with us, you were...getting involved."

His jaw worked. The green of his eyes darkened and his shoulders rolled back. "The job was, we watch her, not send her off. You shoulda stayed with her."

"And left you to it?"

"I woulda been fine."

She shook her head. He didn't understand. She knew that he realized the amount of influence she'd had on him, but he had no idea just how hard she'd worked to give him the chance to be a better kind of man. And his chance was also hers, because before their escape, she'd been giving in to the call of anger and violence, herself. She'd had no choice. She couldn't have left him, job or no.

"Look, why don't you head home?" he said. "I'll deal with the Roches. Long as she's safe, should still be able to get our pay."

"I promise you, she's fine." People started to move back into the park, slowly, cautiously, whispering and pointing at Songbird, edging toward him. The police shouted to one another. A siren sounded in the distance. "I'm not... I don't..." It was suddenly hard to form words. "Aren't you at all concerned with what's happened here?"

"I'm more concerned about you. I asked you to tell me if things started going south, and you didn't."

Oh, God, no. She couldn't do this right now. "By the time I would have said something, it was too late."

"Can't say I much like the sound of that." He peered back over his shoulder, took in East Broadway, swung his gaze around to M. "We gotta get outta here, either way. Place is gonna be overrun. And...Jesus, Elizabeth, _Songbird_? What..."

"I _don't know,_ Booker! Would you leave it be?" Her stomach churned. She was confused, and scared, and ashamed, and so many people had died and she hated it, and she wanted him to shut up and leave her alone. She turned away from him again. "If you would just..."

She stopped, sucked in a breath. Her gaze had fallen back on Songbird. There was...something, a trace, a single line. She could hardly see it, but she could feel it tremble. Feel it beckon to her and beg to be plucked. The thrill of possibility washed over her, overriding her frustration.

_No. Don't even think about it._

It was foolish. What if something went wrong? What if she was dragged under again?

What if she could figure out what had happened?

She started walking toward him. Booker said something and followed after her, but she ignored him. There had to be a reason for this. There had to be a reason why her power had changed and become unstable. What if she could find a piece of the answer right here, right now? What if she could find it at the other end of that thread? At the very least, she had to try, because if she could make it work, then that would mean there was hope for her.

She thought back to how she had felt outside the tavern and at the beginning of the rally, about her inability to see alternate paths for Booker and herself. Things kept happening that weren't supposed to. But how could she even know that? And how could it even be so, when she had seen so many possible lives unfold for so many different people? The reason was there, intuitive, but she couldn't grasp it. She needed something more, something that would push it to the forefront.

Songbird loomed ahead of her, still menacing, still a source of so much fear after all this time. Her nerves buzzed. And as she approached him, his body was overtaken by a surge of electricity, causing him to jerk and spasm in a parody of rigor mortis. His torso shook, his beak dropped open, his head and tail lifted off the ground. Elizabeth jumped and cried out; when he fell back into stillness, she closed her eyes and pressed a hand to her chest. Her heart pounded. She gulped and forced herself to walk on.

She gave the remains of the fountain a wide berth, but the pump was still shooting enough water for it almost not to matter. Her heels sank into the ground; mud splattered her stockings, the hem of her skirt. Mist beaded on her cheeks and forehead. She'd only be able to get so close, wet as she was. It would have to do.

She left two yards' worth of distance between them. His eye was pointing toward her, and it was empty and dead, but she half expected it to pop and swivel, for him to squawk and pull himself up and reach for her. A familiar melody sounded in her head. The air thickened in her lungs. _Calm down._ She licked her lips, catching dirt on her tongue. Took a deep breath. Squinted, focused. And after a handful of heartbeats, the line unfolded and danced before her, bright and sure. She could dig her hands into it, there, right there...

Boots squelched in the mud. Booker came to a stop just behind her, close enough that she could feel the heat of his body on her back. There was a pause, and then, "what exactly are you fixing to do?" To his credit, it was the first time he'd spoken in minutes.

"I'm going to see if I can tell where he was before I opened the tear."

"You think that's a good idea, after..."

She glared at him over her shoulder. She was doing this, and damn the consequences. He huffed and backed away.

"Fine, do what you're gonna do."

She turned back, found it again. A spot of light, pulsing, yearning, singing her name. She almost had it, if she could just... There was a wall, like those she had seen before, but it was thin. So thin. And here, it was brittle and flaking, and if she put out her hand, and concentrated on that point, then all she had to do was...

...push.

_She's bathed in light. No; she's _made_of it, and there's clarity - perfect, sweet, and terrible. Tears are an amateur's game. Hers is an absolute power, and the panopticon is her gaze._

She sees another city, no less incredible and rotten than Columbia, floundering under its own civil war. She sees a space, safe, away from the madness, removed from the center of all things by little more than a set of steps and a corridor. Songbird turns on them, bears down on them, but she knows what to do. What she must do. What she's already done. She splays her fingers and Comstock's ship melts away, and the rubble of her tower is replaced by a pane of glass, thick, reinforced. On the other side is Songbird, surrounded by ocean, drowning and succumbing to the crush of pressure.

Booker is behind her. She feels something for him that she now knows she shouldn't, and she can see the paths that would have let her act on it, can see herself tasting his lips and resting in his arms. It hurts like hell. When she reaches out to say farewell to Songbird, she glances at the thimble on her finger, and wishes it were there for a different reason.

It never is. It never will be.

She'll give him a choice, as the weave allows. He'll choose the way he must, and she'll do, she does, she did the same. She doesn't want to face that yet, to face him, so she remains focused on Songbird. But as she watches him die, something...changes, abrupt and shocking. A piece of her awareness is rent and wrenched away. A door opens, swallows him, tugs at the glass. Booker shifts and mutters a curse.

Ice forms and hardens at the base of her spine. "No," she whispers. She didn't see this. This isn't supposed to happen!

The vision collapsed. She stumbled back. Mud seeped up and around her boot; she fell, arms wheeling, and Booker caught her, but his arms gave no comfort. She felt only sorrow, coupled with a profound sense of loss.

And she had no idea why.

Something inside of her burst. She convulsed, started crying. Booker drew in a breath, sharp, and hoisted her up, pulling her to him. "Easy." The tears fell harder. "The hell did you see?"

She shook her head. She didn't know! When she'd been in it, she'd known everything. She'd known more than she'd ever wanted to. But now, almost all of it was gone! It was a fading dream, and she had nothing to show for it but a handful of images and vague impressions. She felt like she was going to lose Booker, and then lose herself, and that there was no way to stop it. She felt so many awful things, and she couldn't connect them to anything.

The walls. All of the walls. She'd been protecting herself. She still was. But from what?

_We did something wrong._

No, no, that wasn't it. Something was different, but it wasn't their fault. They hadn't known the choice existed.

_What choice?_

She twisted her head against his shoulder and looked down at her hand. What was that about her finger?

"Let's get you outta here."

_There's no getting out of here. You know where you're going. You've already been there._

She let him move her. There was a crowd again - onlookers, some whispering, some wringing hats, some openly crying. Cops, starting to move through them, to tell them to clear away. No one argued this time.

No one else would die today. No one else.

_Except for him. _He's_going to die. And I'm going to be..._

No. He was alive. His body was hot and it was curled around her, and that's how it was going to stay. She shook her head, strained to be present, and noticed that he was taking her to East Second. _The job._ An anchor to reality. She latched onto it. "She went this way."

"What?"

"Mrs. Roche. Perhaps she hasn't completely left; perhaps she's in the crowd."

Booker sighed. "I don't really care right now."

"We can still do this." She swallowed. She was still crying; she tried to stop it. "If she's here, we can check on her, and then we'll have done exactly what we were meant to do."

He stopped and looked down at her. His face was tight with worry. "You sure?"

"It'll only take a moment."

He pinched the bridge of his nose, and then, after a time, he nodded. "All right."

They pushed their way into the press of bodies. She stole a glance back at Songbird, who was now being approached by a wary group of police, guns raised. The tear at his heart was still there, offering her the chance to take another peek, to try again.

On her pinkie, the thimble burned.


End file.
